The Choirboy
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: [ONESHOT] A selection of episodes from Sherlock's childhood concerning his rivalry with Mycroft. But was it worth fighting for the spotlight, or is he better off for having followed his own path?


**Prologue**

'I didn't realise you were a choirboy.'

Sherlock did not look up from whatever it was he was doing. 'Are those my childhood photos you're rifling through?'

'Oh, sorry.' John realised that he had been looking through Sherlock's things without quite registering it, and made to place the stack of photographs – he hadn't known that Sherlock had kept anything from his childhood, so they had intrigued him – back between the Whitaker's Almanac and the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The top photo was one showing a dark-haired young boy in chorister's dress, all robes and frills.

'I wasn't a choirboy,' Sherlock said quietly. 'That's Mycroft.'

John squinted at the image of what was evidently a Holmes brother, but who, now he knew, didn't look all that much like Sherlock. 'Did you not fancy it?'

John's statement was casual, offhand, and came with a smile (he couldn't, after all, imagine Sherlock in those robes), but it seemed to strike a chord somewhere within Sherlock, who furrowed his brow and said nothing. There had been a time... long ago, of course, but he remembered it all too clearly...

* * *

 **Many Years Earlier...**

Mycroft Holmes was far too proud of his new outfit. He did bizarre dances in it, he showed off the long white sleeves, he boasted about how pristine and beautiful the red silk was that outlined his neck and wrists. Even at home he wore it sometimes just to spite his younger brother, who, though he said nothing, was achingly jealous – not of the outfit, which was quite frankly ridiculous, but of Mycroft's new position as a choirboy.

They were pompous youngsters, those choirboys, all of them thinking they were higher than everyone else, because they got to sit in the stalls and look down on the congregation, and because of their fancy clothes, and because the choirmaster spoiled them.

But the thing that made Sherlock the most jealous was that he was a better singer than Mycroft. He was just so shy that nobody had ever noticed. Sometimes he would sing to himself, when Mycroft was hogging the radio or when it was too late in the evening to practise the recorder (he really wanted to move away from the recorder but his brother said he was too young), because music had always helped him concentrate, and was his most steadfast friend.

They went to see Mycroft's first performance, which was a carol-service, on a cold grey day in the middle of December. The warmth of the church was rather marvellous after the chill, snow-heralding air outside, and Sherlock made himself as comfortable as possible on the hard pew, taking off his coat and leaning back, his eyes darting a little around the place and his whirring mind making deductions about the people who filed in. Before the service had begun he had identified six engineers, four miners, ten businessmen, three businesswomen, twenty housewives and a plumber, and he had worked out that most of these people didn't normally come to church, and that the woman in front was married to the man next to her but having an affair with the man two places along. But then Mrs Holmes slapped Sherlock's hand and told him to stop staring at people, which made Sherlock grumpy. His mother was always doing that.

They stood for the first carol, "Hark the Herald", which was sung with gusto by the congregation and a slight arrogance by the choir. Mycroft's eyes swivelled towards his family; his mother smiled and waved a little, but Sherlock avoided his gaze, singing very quietly as usual, but tunefully and sweetly, in a true treble voice. Mycroft was also a splendid singer, and his voice at points rose above the others', especially during the choruses.

Prayers and readings interspersed the carols, and there were some pieces sung solely by the choir, the layers of voices rather magnificent in the church, rising up to the rafters and filling the place with melody. Expressions of joy and rapture were on every face, except for Sherlock's, who sometimes shot scathing glances towards his conceited brother, and sometimes mouthed the words to himself, as he knew the songs and pieces better than Mycroft did.

The final carol was sung in Latin – "Adeste Fideles". This wasn't among Sherlock's favourite carols, as the Latin reminded him of his teacher at school, who wasn't very good and didn't like Sherlock. Whilst the rest of the boys were satisfied by lessons about gladiators and the Punic Wars, Sherlock would instead discuss the Roman legal system and debate at length the crimes mentioned in the speeches of authors such as Cicero. This didn't win him much respect from his peers, but he didn't care about being respected, just learning as much as possible in very narrow fields. It also displeased his teacher, who didn't know quite how to answer any of his questions, and wished Sherlock would just stick to the syllabus.

After the service the choirboys ran to their waiting families, and Mycroft strode towards Sherlock and his mother, a beaming grin plastered on his face, still clutching his songbook.

'Mycroft, I'm so proud of you.'

Mrs Holmes said this rather flatly, but, as she never showed too much emotion and was not known for her compliments, this was exactly what Mycroft had wanted to hear from the very start of the service. And exactly what Sherlock had been dreading hearing. Firstly, because he didn't like Mycroft stealing the spotlight. Secondly, because his mother was never proud of him, and he was immensely, suffocatingly jealous.

'Mummy, I want to be a choirboy too,' he said stubbornly, managing to voice what he had kept secret for too long.

'You? A choirboy?' Mycroft laughed.

'Sherlock, your singing is much too quiet. Nobody would hear you,' his mother said.

Sherlock scowled at this double dismissal, but did not pursue the matter. He was used to being second-best to Mycroft, and had resigned himself to this being the case for the rest of his life.

* * *

A few weeks later, Sherlock started violin-lessons. You could hear the violin. And it was almost like singing, except that the notes you summoned came out from under your bow, in a spellbinding yet bizarre example of ventriloquism. For the first few days, the house was filled with the hesitant, slightly scratchy tones of one who has just started, but this didn't last long. No, Sherlock was determined to learn, to become a maestro, to perform at the Royal Albert Hall – okay, maybe that last one was a bit far-fetched, but ever since his parents had taken him, aged just five, to a concert there, he had been spellbound, and it was this concert that had set off his love of music. But he still wanted to get good on the violin, for he had found something he loved, another hobby to put alongside random deductions and playing with his chemistry set.

And he did become good on the violin. He finished the ridiculous beginner book in a week, flying through the tedious simplified versions of his favourite pieces and the simple duets of which Mycroft always insisted on playing the second part on the recorder, just to show off. He moved straight on to the pieces he loved – the Four Seasons by Vivaldi; the Bruch concerto he had heard at the Royal Albert that fateful evening; the Mendelssohn, the Tchaikovsky, the Brahms: all, perhaps, a little too ambitious for a boy not yet out of prep school, but he was so determined that even on sight-reading them he produced something instantly recognisable as the piece he had chosen to work at; and as time went on he would add his own flourishes, and delight his grandparents at least with his mini-recitals (they didn't fawn over Mycroft the choirboy quite as much as his parents did).

All was well until Mycroft decided to enter into what was, to him, just a continuation of a competition that had lasted almost since Sherlock's birth. Mycroft demanded to learn the violin, and his wish was granted.

Mycroft wasn't as good as Sherlock on the violin, that was certain. Their competing playing could be easily distinguished: Sherlock played purely, effortlessly, and truly lost himself in the music, for he loved it more than anything else. Mycroft, however, was still scratchy after weeks and months of lessons (though Sherlock repeatedly stealing the rosin for his bow didn't help), and couldn't quite glide over the music like Sherlock did. When he played, it was always an effort; when Sherlock played, it was as if he and the violin were as one.

But the one area in which Mycroft excelled over Sherlock was performance.

Sherlock had begun to blossom, and though he was introverted and rarely talked, except about those things that interested him most, he had lost much of the crippling shyness that he had had before, in day-to-day matters at least. But put him on stage and tell him to play, and he was a wreck. Where Mycroft, used to the attention and the spotlight, would stride proudly to the music-stand, his chest thrown out, raising his bow in a dramatic gesture before bringing it down on the strings and giving an enthusiastic, if not quite accurate, recital of a piece, Sherlock would become distracted by the audience, wondering what they were thinking about him, often guessing what they were thinking about him, counting the people he knew and trying to work out as much as possible about those he didn't know, spotting his mother there and reddening, seeing Mycroft's distinctive smirk –

And then his hands would be shaking, his palms sweaty, and he wouldn't be able to play well at all, getting all of the notes right but not the rhythms, hardly able to concentrate on the music for all the thoughts that were whirling around his head.

It wasn't fair! Why was Mycroft so, so –

So much better than him at absolutely _everything_?

* * *

But Mycroft wasn't better than him at _absolutely_ everything.

Mycroft was jealous of one thing about Sherlock (as well as, perhaps, that admirable sprout of irresponsible curls as a contrast to the short tufts that were all Mycroft's head could manage), and that was his deductions. Oh yes, Mycroft could deduce things. But not half as quickly, effectively or as quirkily as Sherlock could. Sherlock could work everything out about everyone and everything given half a chance (and, quite often, just half a second). Mycroft preferred to stick to other shows of intelligence – winning prizes at school for working hard and well in class, writing informed articles for the school magazine, and things like that. Whereas Sherlock almost never concentrated in school and still managed to impress with those – those damned deductions of his.

Sherlock knew this and cultivated it. The one area in which he could lord over Mycroft – the skill he could work at backstage and still make it useful – would be his area of expertise. And unlike Mycroft, he liked deducing things. He liked the whirlwind thought process that only really occurred to him after he had arrived at an answer. He liked using it on (often unsuspecting) people, telling them things about themselves that sometimes even they didn't know. Mycroft stuck mainly to things he knew for definite, and was, as ever, a born leader, a manipulator perhaps, but someone who craved importance – not necessarily recognition, but importance nonetheless. Sherlock didn't care about importance, recognition, respect or even people taking notice of him, just as long as he satisfied his own brain.

And therefore Mycroft ended up pretty much being the British government and living almost like royalty, which suited him down to the ground; and Sherlock left his brother's shadow and excelled in his own field, the unpredictable career he had invented for himself.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

'Sometimes I wanted to be like him...'

Sherlock smiled vaguely. He could have been Mycroft's equivalent in the music world, and that thought sometimes struck him when he was playing the violin, wondering if he was good enough yet to perform on the stage at the Royal Albert Hall, the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, indeed any of the best concert halls; whether he'd have been at the very top of his game. But – and nobody who knew him would have guessed it – he still wasn't entirely sure that he'd conquered stage-fright. After all, he was still a backstage man, always working behind the scenes to ensure that everything on the visible side went smoothly.

And he was at the very top of this game, after all. The world's only consulting detective had no rivals. And besides, who would want to be famous? He would have been a traveller, never stopping in one place, never knowing anyone properly; he would have remained his reclusive self, hiding away when he wasn't on stage; and he would never have been in such an unstable position as to need to go halves on a flat – he would never have met John.

And surely that was as good a reason as any for being different to his brother...


End file.
